


Come Back to Me

by wolfofwinterfell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, get all in the feels, much sad, werewolf expedition, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:34:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfofwinterfell/pseuds/wolfofwinterfell
Summary: Not all quests go as hoped. Sometimes you lose what’s worth coming back to.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 9





	Come Back to Me

Evil. Soulless. Deserving nothing but death. Lyall Lupin had regretted those words the rest of his life, and he’d made sure his son knew that. He had done what most people would do — parroted a viewpoint prevalent in his community in order to protect people. Remus didn’t blame him for that. 

Nor did he blame him for the attack. 

He _did_ blame him for the way he handled the situation. Lyall had done what he’d’d thought best, afraid of Remus’s response, and Remus could understand that. But nights like this — when the air was just warm enough to sit outside without several layers on and teased at the changing season soon to come, and he could hear his friends laughing through a cracked window — it was hard to not be upset. 

What right did he have to be here? The question went beyond his physical location — much beyond. 

“You know, you used to be good fun, but it seems you’re turning into an old misery guts.” The grass rustled quietly as Sirius sat down beside him. 

“I’ve _always_ been ‘an old misery guts’ — as you have pointed out to me on numerous occasions.” 

“That’s true.” Sirius smiled over at him, but it wasn’t his usual smile, bright as the sun and full of mischief; it was strained. He’d been putting on a good front for the rest of their friends, but out here, with walls and doors to block their sympathetic glances, he let the truth come through. 

“Who’s really being the sourpuss?” His tone had a bit of a bite to it. This was going to be hard on all of them, and though Sirius would have it worse than the rest of their friends, it grated on Remus’s nerves to see him so unlike himself. “Or’d the cat get your tongue?”

Sirius looked toward the window where he could see James and Lily and, between them, Harry waving his arms. They were laughing and putting up a banner. Remus let his eyes roam over Sirius’s face, memorizing every detail of it while he was distracted. There was a birthday cake on the counter for him for after dinner, he knew, and a small table with his presents on it. He felt bad for making his friends wait — friends he didn’t deserve in the first place — but he didn’t want to go in when he felt so unsettled. No, when _they_ felt unsettled.

“Padfoot…” He glanced away from Sirius briefly and when he looked back, their eyes met. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to go.” 

He felt warmer as Sirius inched closer to him and then pulled him into a hug.  
  
“I don’t want you to go either...but you have to.” His voice was almost as heartbreaking as the tears Remus felt on his neck.

“For Harry.” He tipped Sirius’s chin up. “And you.” 

Just before their lips met Sirius whispered, “Come back to me.” 

And in the best way he knew how, Remus said he would.

* * *

_“You’ve heard what people call us. What your own father called us.”_

Fenrir Greyback’s words were never far from his mind these days, and neither were his father’s. Every time he walked among any of the werewolves he heard the echoes of them, saw them in the body language of nearly everyone. The Werewolf Registry was notoriously badly maintained, and being among so many of them, he understood why. 

After all, hadn’t he undergone the same hardships? 

_“But they’re fueled by their anger. You want to prove people wrong.”_ Sirius’s words ran through his head too, each time he became discouraged. _“And that’s why you’re better.”_

He didn’t see himself as better — not really. Just lucky. But the werewolves who knew who he was thought he saw himself as better, and they sneered when he would come near. _Dumbledore’s pet_ , they called him. 

He had started this quest in the west country — not far from Godric’s Hollow — the day after his birthday, with no promises as to when he would be back. Empty words were worth nothing, and that was all he would have been able to give to Sirius, James, Lily and Harry. He’d hoped to be back by Harry’s birthday but didn’t dare say so. 

But the days came and went, and the further he travelled, the more his hopes sank — both of getting back quickly and achieving what he had set out to do. 

Harry’s birthday passed before Remus realised it, but he made progress in the north of the country. There were a few families who had recently moved to the area, he was told, each with young children. They never stayed in one place too long and had trouble holding down jobs. 

In August, he began to make even more progress and an alliance of sorts with a girl a few years younger than himself. Greyback had bitten her as well, but her parents hadn’t handled the change to their daughter as well as his own had done. 

By October, she was still the only one he felt he really made something of a difference with. 

“Did you hear the news?” Ella slipped him an apple and some bread as she sat down beside him in the park, shivering slightly. He wasn’t certain if it was from the chill of the air or whatever she was about to reveal. 

“No,” he shook his head as he bit into the bread, pocketing the apple for later. “Good or bad?”  
  
“Depends who you are.” She paused. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead.”

Remus froze mid-bite and stared at her, mouth still closed around the bread. Slowly, he pulled it down and chewed, and she waited quietly until he swallowed. He was almost afraid to ask for more information, if she even had it, but he heard himself say, “What’s the bad?”

“The Potters are dead too. Destroyed a lot of the house, evidently.” Her voice was quiet and kind, and he was glad he had heard it from her; she was the closest thing to a friend he had here. That was the only reason he managed to squeeze her hand gently before he shakily got to his feet and stumbled toward a place he hardly called home. 

He made it just around the corner before he doubled over.

Ella found him again the next night with a drink in one hand and her blasted apple in the other. He was planning to eat it, but the thought of food made his mouth taste like ash and his stomach churn. The whiskey wasn’t much better, but it made him warm and with the nights getting colder, he’d take any bit of comfort he could. 

It didn’t matter now anyway. 

_But you still have Sirius._

He smiled a little at that thought. Together he and Sirius could grieve for their friends. Their family. Together they could get through this and raise Harry. He’d been relieved this morning when he heard that the boy had lived. 

“What’re you smiling about tonight?” Ella looked up at him and her eyes were hard to read in the dim lighting of the pub. 

“Ah, just my mate. Sirius.” He took another drink of whiskey, draining his glass, and was about to signal for another when he felt Ella’s fingers on his wrist. She shook her head. “What is it, then?”  
  
“You’ve not heard? They found out how You-Know-Who found the Potters.” She took his hand in hers as his brow furrowed. “It was their friend. Your...it was your friend. Sirius Black.” 

“No.” Remus took his hand from her grasp and shook his head. “He would never.” 

“It’s true. He killed Peter Pettigrew on a street — and twelve muggles. Just before Black killed him, Pettigrew screamed that Black had betrayed the Potters. _The Prophet_ says that all that was left of Pettigrew was a pinky.” Ella hesitated. “Remus, I’m so sorry.” 

But he didn’t hear her.

He turned and stepped out into the street, crumpling when the air hit his face, and he wasn’t sure how long he sat there, his body wracked by sobs. But when there were no more tears left to cry and nothing left in his stomach, he pulled the apple from his pocket. He stared at it for a long while, until well after the last patron of the pub had gone home, then he threw it against the side of the building across the street. 

He’d failed at all of it. 

If he had been _faster_ , this wouldn’t have happened. If he had been _better_ , he could have convinced the werewolves to come to Dumbledore’s side, to put everything they’d heard from people aside and to aid the only person who was willing to fight for them to have a chance at a normal life. But they were all too attached to their hate and anger to turn away from Voldemort, or from being passive, and he was too attached to his self-destructiveness to find a way to overcome their barriers.

He wanted to let the wolf in him out now, to howl and rip apart whatever he could. He pictured it, the white of his fangs gleaming as the moon caught them as they slashed, the metallic taste of blood, and then the familiar black fur of a dog whose gaze was no longer friendly. 

He wasn’t sure if the mournful howl was real or imagined as the ache inside him expanded. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but he wasn’t sure who he was speaking to. Dumbledore? James and Lily and Harry? Sirius? Peter? 

Himself?


End file.
